


Back in the Game

by nieseryjna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieseryjna/pseuds/nieseryjna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They knew each other so well no words were needed. Just a picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Season 3x16 “Judgment Day”  
> Notes: Future, AU  
> Beta by fantastic mam711 from fanfiction.net

Peter sighed, opening the door to his home; it had been a tiring day. An-other tense day in the office under the close scrutiny of OPR. Three months, two weeks and four days since Neal cut his anklet and disappeared. Not that he was counting.

“Hon?” he called, seeing light in the kitchen. It was late, much later than he thought he would be back, and he didn’t expect Elizabeth to be still up.

She came, dressed in his robe, with hands wrapped around a cup and an unreadable look on her face. “Hi hon,” she responded quietly, kissing him on the cheek. Peter hung his coat and put the briefcase aside.

“El? Honey, what’s going on?” he asked again as she pulled him toward the kitchen island.

“There's something waiting for you.” She put the cup aside and pushed a rectangle of paper towards him.

A postcard. His heart quickened; it had been years since he last got a postcard. It was actually strange to get one, and it was always Neal that sent them. They normally received letters or cards in closed envelopes. Never post-cards.

His raised his eyes to look at El; now he could see clearly she'd been cry-ing before, her eyes puffy and still slightly glistening. Catching her free hand, he pulled her close, hugging her with one arm while he took another look at the postcard in his hand.

Under close scrutiny, he discovered that it was handmade, the lines slightly blurry where ink had soaked into the paper. The FBI agent in him won-dered if there would be fingerprints worth checking, but then he let it go; he already suspected who it was from. The front was decorated with a simple drawing: a mouse, obviously on the move, was running ahead; on the right side her nose almost touched the edge of the card. On the left, closer to the middle, sat a cat licking his paw. On the left he spotted a half head of a coonhound dog, its long ears half lying on the simple line representing the ground, the nose obviously sniffing. Between the cat and the mouse were two poles with a banner. 

“Happy Birthday,” Peter read aloud. His brow furrowed in confusion. He turned the card to see the rest only to be greeted his with own name and ad-dress, a post office postmark and a unfamiliar stamp. A New York City post-mark.

“Honey? It’s from him, isn’t it?” El asked, her arm sneaking around his waist.

“I think so. But either he hit his head and forgot my birthday is not for another two months....” He trailed off, his mind quickly going over all Neal’s aliases and their birthdays.

“Or he is trying to tell you something?” she nudged.

“The last time he sent me a card he was in prison. It’s Neal and whatever he means by that is probably hidden.” Laying the card down, he kissed El on the top of her head. “Come on, let’s go to bed; we can wonder about what he wants tomorrow.” It wasn’t like he didn’t want to know right away, but they would have a full weekend to figure it out.

He woke up three hours later; his sleep had been shallow and full of nightmares about Neal in some third-world country prisons, mixed with another one where instead of prison he was living in luxurious hotels. Peter slowly extracted himself from El and padded downstairs. The postcard was still lying where he'd left it, mocking him to solve its puzzle.

“Dammit, Neal!” he cursed, drawing a hand through his hair. Making a fresh pot of coffee, he sat at the island and stared at the card. He turned it back and forth, examining the drawing, then quickly looking over the address, and then back.

It was an appropriate picture to illustrate the current situation. Neal, the running mouse; Peter, the waiting cat and Kramer, the searching hound. 

He was flipping the card again when his eyes fell on the postage stamp. There was something that had been bothering him about the card and the stamp; leaving it on the counter, he poured a cup of coffee, took a sip and stared outside into darkness. Then it hit him: the lines on the picture were slightly blurry—Neal the perfectionist forger and artist knew very well which ink to use on what paper to ensure no blurs. It was part of the message. Taking another sip of the coffee, Peter wandered into the living room; opening drawers, he retrieved a magnifying glass. Now he could examine the card closer.

Sitting at the stool, he started with the drawing again; he slowly moved over each part of it. The close scrutiny only confirmed what he'd noticed before: some of the lines were blurred, enough to give the impression of speedy and sloppy work. He smiled slightly at the pictures; each of the animals so slightly had features of the men they represented. Flipping the card, he took a close look at the stamp and postmark.

They looked … real; it was impossible that the card had been sent in New York. Peter shook his head, brows coming together in confusion.

“Neal what are you trying to say?” he muttered.

With a sigh Peter put both card and glass on the counter and closed his eyes, running his fingers over his temple. 

After a moment he took another close look at the postmark. A face of a man, unruly hair, thick beard and mustache, all in slightly brown colors. It looked like it was a painting—not really in Neal’s style -- an artist self-portrait. On top was written "Republique Francaise", on the right the word "postes", and in the right bottom corner the price, 50 c. At the bottom on the left was a name, Gustave Moreau, with dates 1826-1898. 

Moreau—this name was following Neal like a bad omen. Taking a book off the shelf, Peter found the painter's name; maybe in something that he painted he would find his clue? No such luck, the painter was not one of Neal’s favorites, an Impressionist, but a Symbolist. Taking another look at the stamp, Peter frowned. The letter V was slightly thicker than the rest of the first name, but the same as the surname. His hand wavered—could it be?—and moved slightly to the left, the postmark. The card couldn’t have been delivered by normal post, not with that stamp; it was obvious now that the mark must also be a clue. The date was the day of Neal's final hearing and disappearance. He knew now where to start searching for Neal again, and knew now that Neal wanted to be found. 

“Well, Mr. V. Moreau, let's see where you've gone....”

He toasted with cold coffee towards the sunrise. 

The game is on, Neal.

The End


End file.
